In The Dark
by Drake Rhapsody
Summary: "He thanks heavens when the night comes. At night all men are equal. The ones with golden eyes and the ones with red eyes. Even the ones whose eyes don't see anything anymore." Translation of my fic "En la Oscuridad".


**This fic takes place during the days Mustang remains blind at the hospital. It is a well-worn plot by now, I'm aware of that, but I just wanted to write. As always, English is not my mother tongue so, although I try hard not to, I make many mistakes. Feel free to point them to me in a review; I'll correct it as soon as I can.**

 **If you understand Spanish, please go to my profile and look for "En la Oscuridad", the original fic. It's way better.**

 **I recommend you to listen to "Nocturne of Amestris -Duet-" by Akira Senju while you are reading it.**

 **Welcome, I'm Drake Rhapsody and I give you:**

 **In the Dark**

He thanks heavens when the night comes.

At night all men are equal. The ones with golden eyes and the ones with red eyes. Even the ones whose eyes don't see anything anymore.

His faded pupils focus on the cellar.

Why the cellar?

Because there is nothing to see in the cellar. Nothing he could miss.

A moment ago, the doctor left after changing the dressings of his hands and his lieutenant's neck. A moment ago, the medication has begun to work and he barely feels the pain.

Since a moment ago, the only sound to hear in the room is the calm breath from the bed next to his. Since a moment ago, its soft rhythm seems to become a watch that morphs moments to minutes and seconds.

Time seems more tangible and darkness more unreal.

He closes his eyes.

The same darkness welcomes him behind his lids, but now he could pretend it doesn't.

His hands ache, but at least not as much as they did that morning. He tries to imagine them, but he has never been very good at imagining things. What do they look like fully bandaged? Are the hospital sheets still white? What color is the door? How was the doctor's face?

He turned slightly his head to where the slow breathing comes and tries to imagine what he cannot see.

Is she really asleep? Is she wearing one of those horrible hospital pyjamas? How is she? Has she recovered the colour of her face or is she still as pale as the last time he saw her?

He tries to imagine a blonde cascade covering the pillow, but he can't; again and again, what lies beneath her hair is the scarlet glow of a pool of blood. Again and again, he can't do any more than opening his eyes again and staring at the ceiling, struggling to clear the darkness and distinguish at least a tiny bit of light.

How is the room he is in? Are there curtains on the windows? Is there any painting on the wall?

How is _she_?

He turns his head again, hearing rustle from the bed next to his. Is she getting up or just moving in her sleep? Is she looking at him? Is she wearing her hair down or…?

He stares at the ceiling, squeezing his lids shut to dispel the images from his useless retinas. However, his dead eyes don't let him forget, as if the last thing they had to do in this world were fill his mind with those last images they saw.

He opens his eyes and there is his lieutenant lying in a pool of blood. He closes them again and sees the transmutation circle under her. He turns his head from one side to the other, like a madman, and sees the life in those sharp eyes slowly fading away.

He opens his eyes and only the darkness welcomes him. Suddenly, he can't breathe. His eyes are blind to the world but at the same time they keep torturing him with those last images.

His lieutenant on the floor.

His lieutenant bleeding to death.

His lieutenant close-eyed, dying in his arms.

The air leaves him so fast he sits up with a start. His own worked up breathing muffles any other sound.

That's why when a hand lightly touches his cheek his first reaction is to move away, looking everywhere, forgetting he cannot see.

He feels the mattress slightly sinking; the springs creak a bit.

Slowly he stretches a hand, feeling his way over the sheets until his fingertips touch something that wasn't there seconds before.

He doesn't turn his head. He already knows she's there, beside him. Also, it doesn't make sense to do so if he can't see her.

"Lieutenant" he calls, but only silence answers.

The hand that rests on the mattress glides a little bit more, grazing a rough fabric just like the one he is wearing. He doesn't know which part of her he's touching. He wouldn't do it if he could see her, so he stretches his arm a bit more, letting his palm recognize the curvy shape of her knee.

"Lieutenant" he calls again.

"You have to sleep, Colonel" she answers in the dark, and a hand leans on his collarbone, pushing him softly backwards.

As soon as his back touches the pillow, the images come again and he sits up again, pushing her hand aside. His eyes remain open, staring at what he supposes is his lap.

"Colonel?"

"I don't want to sleep" he answers back. His hands are trembling but he can't close them tight to stop them from shaking.

She remains quiet.

She do not ask, she do not talk.

And he is still shivering like a child.

"Lieutenant" he calls for the third time.

"I'm here"

He sinks his eyes into the darkness, in spite of knowing he can't find her there.

"Where?"

In the dark, a hand sneaks slowly into his own, barely grazing the injured palm, entwining her fingers with his. The watch of his own breathing stops just an instant.

Just enough time for his numb fingers to close around hers.

"How…?"

 _How are you?_ He wants to ask. _How's your neck?_

"How is the room?"

"Little and square" come the answer. "Your bed and mine are separate by a little light green nightstand. The sheets are white. Now all is dark, but when the sun rises, I can see the street from the window."

The pad of a thumb caresses gently his knuckles. His hands have stopped shaking but he still finds it hard to breathe.

"And… how is it?"

The thumb stops moving over his skin.

"Colonel?"

"The street. How is it?"

He hears a light chuckle, soft as the breeze that extinguish a candle. Her thumb resumes its movements and her weight shifts over the bed, nearer from him.

"Is the same as always, Colonel. I'm sure you remember."

The only thing he remembers is the stone floor beneath a pool of blood, under her blonde hair.

"Where are you?" he asks again.

The hand that holds his squeezes slightly, never hurting him.

"I haven't moved, Colonel. What's wrong?"

"I told you once. I can't afford to lose you."

Silence.

He cannot see her face or her expression. The fingers entwined with his are suddenly moving and for a moment he fears she will let go and leave him alone in the dark.

But she doesn't.

Riza's hand guides his up, slowly, trying not to hurt him. His fingers feel another type of rough fabric, the same that dress his wounded palms.

"I'm alive" she says, and he feels the vibration of her throat beneath his touch.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand reads the lines that the bandages form around her neck and chase them up to her jaw. His fingertips take the lead over his devoided eyes. The visions of blood and death step in for the curve of her chin, the softness of her skin, the uplift of her cheekbone, her closed eyes, her parted lips…

Slowly, ever so slowly, Roy's hand finds the nape of her neck, covered by a cascade of hair he imagines is still golden. He closes his now useless eyes and brings her close, ever so slowly, trying to foresee the way in the dark.

And suddenly, Riza's hair slips through his fingers and a pair of lips seals his own.

Time stops, for they stop breathing.

Riza is the first one to retreat but not so much: he still feels her breath over his skin while the mouth that has just anticipated his movements slips to his ear:

"Forgive me" she says, "but you are too slow."

Roy takes her face in his hands and, even in the dark, finds the way back.

Time and again.

Until time itself is only measured by his silver watch.

And in the dark, they aren't Colonel and Lieutenant anymore, being just Roy and Riza instead.

They have had enough military ranks for the night.


End file.
